Contact
by dress without sleeves
Summary: Before leaving Smallville, Lois asks Clark for his email address. And no, she's not nervous, thankyouverymuch. Who's attracted to the tall, strong, selfless type, anyway?


**Author's Note:** This is set at the beginning of Season 4 when Lois is re-accepted to Met U. I know that it's absolutely AU and has _many_ out-of-character flaws (the two most glaring being Lois having such strong feelings for Clark so early and Clark kissing her cheek) but I was bored and am in desperate need for some Lois/Clark action in the show!

So anyways, enjoy!

Contact

_For Tom Welling_

_Will you marry me?_

_Please?_

Plan A: Ask.

Plan B: _Don't_ ask and never see or speak to him again.

If Plan A is a bucket of suck, then Plan B is the motherload. Lois chews her fingers, following Clark's huge shoulders as he ambles through a throng of admirers. He peers over their heads to catch her gaze – and smiles, just the tiniest bit.

And oh, _buddy_ is she in trouble.

Lana's lips are tipping slowly upwards, and her hand pats Lois' shoulder. "Look away before it's too late," she warns cheerfully. "Too many of those grins and you'll follow the path of many women stronger than you."

Lois yanks her arm away. "What, _me_? In love with the mascot for farm boys all over the world? _I_ don't _think_ so."

Chloe laughs, joining in Lana's smug demeanor. "Face it, Lois. The farm boy appeal is cute. The hay bale-throwing, football-playing bod isn't bad either." She winks. "Unless, of course, you're too _shy_."

She rolls her eyes, gripping her cell phone. She could pretend to get a call if things got too awkward; or if he started to tease; or if he smiled too big and she began to stutter. I mean, this is crazy. She is _Lois Lane,_ for the love of God! She picks up boys the way most mantels collect dust! The idea that _she_ might be too embarrassed to talk to small-time good boy Kent is …

Lois would use the word 'preposterous', but she's afraid that the Smallville-dwelling bumpkins wouldn't understand anything with more than four letters.

"I'm not too shy," she snaps. "Just because you two fell prey to the awkward good-golly, aw-shucks, I-like-to-help-old-women-and-children thing that he has going for him, but me? I prefer …" She trails off. _Actually, now that I think about it … that sounds nice._ "City boys," she completes with a decisive nod.

"And here I was, thinking we were starting to get friendly." The three of them jump, screaming.

For a boy that stands above every head in a crowd, the guy can come out of nowhere. Lois gapes up at him. "I _hate_ it when you do that!" Clark just smiles, flushed cheeks balling beneath his eyes.

He gently chucks her shoulders, his fist nearly the size of her head. "All the more reason to continue."

"Have I told you how much I'm going to miss you?" She echoes his earlier words with her usual acerbic humor.

Humor that Clark, in his usual fashion, ignores as he sweeps her into a brief but bone-crushing hug. "Well, I hope you keep in touch."

_Boom._ Plan A time. It's perfect; _Well, hey! On that note … do you have an email address? Or do you want to maybe give me your phone number?_

There's an awkward silence. Plan A is slipping out the window.

"Lois?"

Plan B sounds good. "Sorry. All this country air is giving me a headache. You were saying?" Chloe elbows her side; Clark raises his eyebrows. "So do you have computers on that farm of yours, or do you still rely on the Pony Express?"

A tiny smile works around the edges of his mouth. Lois grips her pen. Oh, yeah. _Big_ trouble. "Is that your big-city way of asking me for my email address?"

She notices, with vague annoyance, that Chloe and Lana have been slowly creeping backwards. Lois wants to point out to her cousin that _no_, this is not a _moment_, and that Clark's wrinkled eyes have absolutely no effect whatsoever on the strength of her knees.

"What do _you_ think?" she asks, and maybe her tone is just a little too coy to be called 'derisive'.

He's laughing openly now, and she wants to sock him one. "Let me guess; you just wanted it to make sure that my bed didn't get lonely." Her eyes widen and eyebrows arch as the insinuation sets in; he chokes on his own laughter and splutters (in a manner that can _definitely_ not be described as 'cute' or 'endearing'), "Wait. That came out wrong. I meant—something else—I meant—uhm—"

He stops speaking, taking a deep breath to redirect the conversation. "Here, give me your hand."

She produces the limb dutifully, if not a little warily, and he absently wraps his fingers around her wrist. She's amazed by how easily he does it; his massive paws make her look tiny and insignificant. Tiny sparks crackle beneath his touch—but that's just the start of a rash, not any indication of attraction. He takes her proffered pen and hastily scribbles his email onto her palm. "Keep in touch, Lo," he mutters, and presses a kiss onto her cheek. She watches with a tiny smile as he practically runs back into the crowd, jamming his football helmet onto his head.

"I will," she says, to herself, but she's almost certain that he stops for a second, as though listening.


End file.
